The Big Bamboo (18 page)

Coleman exhaled a big hit. “What?”

“My Los Angeles soundtrack.” Serge turned the iPod’s click-wheel to the desired position. “Spent weeks selecting the perfect tunes to give us special powers.” He hit play and maxed out the volume. The Chrysler turned left on Osage.

“…I wonder why in L.A….”

The Grand Marquis followed. The passenger keyed his microphone. “…Still got him…We’re making another left on Eighty-third…”

The Chrysler’s occupants bobbed their heads to the music.

“I haven’t heard this song in forever,” said Coleman.

“It’s what we’re all about,” said Serge.

“…To Live and Die in L.A.!…”

The passenger in the Grand Marquis raised his microphone again. “Just made another left on Handley. It doesn’t make sense. We’re heading back to the airport.”

“Countersurveillance shake, checking for tails,”
said the radio.
“Fall back. This guy’s a pro…”

“Where are we going?” asked Coleman.

“I don’t know. I think I just made a bunch of wrong turns…Wait. Here’s Manchester again…”

They turned east for the freeway. Serge pointed out the left side of the car. “Landmark alert. Randy’s Doughnuts. Featured prominently as Jeff Goldblum drives to the airport at the beginning of
Into the Night
.”

Coleman held a big hit. “There’s a giant doughnut on top of the building.”

“It’s Randy’s.”

“That’s fucked up.”

The Chrysler approached a red light. At the last second, Serge cut over to the turn lane.

“What is it?” asked Coleman.

“There’s a twenty-four-hour Home Warehouse.” The light turned green. Serge drove a block and pulled into the parking lot. “I’ll be right back.”

Ten minutes later he trotted out of the store with a clear gallon jug. It had a red warning label, skull and crossbones. “Pop the front hood.”

Coleman reached under the dash and pulled a lever. The trunk sprang open.

“Hang tight with that joint,” said Serge. He came around and reached in the car for another lever.

A black Grand Marquis sat on the other side of the parking lot. “What’s he doing?”

The driver shrugged and kept watching with binoculars.

“What are you doing?” asked Coleman.

Serge uncapped a plastic tank near the Chrysler’s battery and began topping it off with his jug. “Serge’s Super Washer Fluid.”

“What’s that?”

Serge capped the plastic tank and slammed the hood. He climbed back in the car and showed Coleman the jug.

“Muriatic acid?”

“To clean the windshield,” said Serge. “I have to have perfect visibility.”

Coleman toked his roach. “Looks fine to me. What’s the matter with regular washer fluid?”

“Leaves a film,” said Serge. “Barely perceptible fog that most people can’t detect. But I pick it up with my polarized fishing glasses. And once I see it, it’s all I see. Not to mention bugs. If they get baked on, forget it. You can spray a whole tank of the regular blue shit and there’ll still be specks, which always show up on the photos I take while driving.”

Coleman leaned forward. “You’re right. I see specks.”

“Fuck specks.” Serge activated the windshield washer. Twin jets squirted the glass, wipers sweeping.

“The specks are gone,” said Coleman.

“This stuff’s incredible. They usually use it to dissolve concrete. That’s why I have to be careful with the ratio to water or it’ll etch the glass.”

“There’s a whole page of warnings here on this jug.”

“That’s just for morons. Like the people who spray Lemon Pledge on food.”

“Ow,” said Coleman, rubbing his arm. “A drop splashed on me. It’s burning!”

“Don’t rub it,” said Serge, turning off the jets. “It’ll make it worse. And definitely don’t spit. Apply some vinegar to neutralize the pH.”

“I don’t have any vinegar.”

“I know. I hope you weren’t fond of that spot on your arm.”

“Is it going to leave a permanent mark?”

“Unfortunately.”

“Serge!”

“I hear long sleeves are coming back.” They began driving again, and Serge slipped on his polarized fishing glasses. “There we go.”

“Serge, it’s night.”

“It’s L.A. Everyone wears sunglasses at night.”

The Chrysler made a pair of lefts. The black Grand Marquis remained a half-dozen lengths back. Serge raced up an entrance ramp to the freeway. He slammed to a stop.

Coleman grabbed the dash. “What happened?”

Serge pointed up beside the car. “Ramps in California have traffic lights.”

“Far out.”

“It’s a completely different culture. Their freeways have stoplights, ours have dye-pack stains.”

“Stains?”

The light turned green. Serge accelerated. “Everywhere you drive in Florida, interstate ramps have all these splatter marks that look like people were throwing balloons filled with powder-blue paint. Except they’re really the mess chucked out the window after dye packs exploded in bank robbers’ getaway cars.”

“You’re pulling my leg.”

“Shit you not. Statistics show bandits prefer branch offices near highway interchanges for quick escape. Like other Floridians, I’d been seeing these blue skid marks for years and never knew what they were. But after the first time you figure it out, you start seeing them everywhere—Miami to Jacksonville to Pensacola—so many you begin wondering, ‘What the heck’s going on out here when I’m not around? Is it just pure chance we’re not crossing paths?’ The answer, of course, is yes.”

“It’s creepy knowing those people are sharing our roads,” said Coleman. “Maybe we should move to a safer place.”

“Like where?”

Back at the entrance ramp, the light turned green again. A Grand Marquis pulled onto the freeway.

“I don’t know,” said Coleman. “Maybe move here. The weather’s nice. Kind of pretty…”

“You nuts?” said Serge. “Our crime might be unnerving, but in California everything else is insane. Earthquakes, mud slides, forest fires, primal scream, laws requiring signs that say everything will kill you, rogue sea lions taking over coastal towns, attack dogs bred to the size of bison, strip malls with designer enemas, a power grid that makes my train set look like Con Edison, and a governor and first lady who’ve had all the moisture sucked out of their heads.”

“But at least there’s no crime.”

“Oh, there’s crime all right,” said Serge. “It’s just more glamorous. Sure, celebrities
say
they’re liberal and want peace. Then they crash their cars drunk and slap each other stupid at the spa. If that’s not enough, come to find out, they all secretly have guns! Which you’d misguidedly think is a contradiction because they’re
for
gun control, except they explain they have additional safety concerns that regular people don’t face. They’re right: other stars.”

“Remember when Grace Slick pointed a shotgun at those deputies?”

“Exactly what I’m talking about,” said Serge. “All the newspeople were reporting how high she was, and I’m thinking, So? That’s her job. My big question was, what’s Grace Slick doing with a gauge in her crib? Have I been listening to ‘Surrealistic Pillow’ on the wrong speed all these years?”

Coleman was turned around in his seat. “Serge…”

“What?”

“I think we’re being followed.”

“You’re paranoid.”

“No, really. That Grand Marquis. See how he’s weaving through traffic trying to catch up?”

Serge glanced in the rearview. “I see him. Probably another lunatic left-coast driver. I’ll speed up and try to lose him.”

He stomped on the gas. Eighty, ninety…

The passenger in the Marquis pointed with his radio mike. “They’ve made us.”

“No they haven’t.”

“Look. That one guy’s staring back here. And now they’re speeding up.”

“Then we’ll speed up.”

“Won’t that make them more suspicious?”

“No. On freeways, what you want to do is get over in the next lane and pass them. Then they just think you’re a speeder and drop their guard. After a while, you slow down and let them pass, and you’re back in the chase.”

Serge continued accelerating. “Have I lost them?” The needle hit an even hundred.

“No, but they’re getting over in the next lane. They’re going to pass.” Coleman turned back around. “Guess you were right. Just speeders.”

Serge looked up at the rearview again with a glint in his eye. “God, I hate speeders! Families drive on these streets…I got an idea.”

“What?”

“You’ll see,” said Serge. “First I need to slow back down to the speed limit.”

The Marquis’s passenger pointed again. “You were right. They’re slowing down. They don’t suspect us.”

“I told you.”

Serge switched his gaze to the side mirror. “You might want to buckle your seatbelt. This could get a little bouncy.”

“Oh, shit.”

Serge reached into the overnight bag under his legs. “Coleman, take this.”

“Video camera?”

“You know that destabilizing maneuver they teach on the driving course at police academies?” said Serge. “They steer the nose of the patrol car into one of the rear fenders, putting the suspect’s vehicle into an uncontrollable spin. Then it crashes and the driver is easy to beat up.”

“I’ve seen that on the news,” said Coleman. “The cops capture it with the automatic dashboard camera.”

“That’s why I want you to film,” said Serge. “We might make CNN.”

Coleman turned on the camcorder and squinted into the viewfinder. “You going to do the destabilizing maneuver?”

“No. I’m going to unveil Serge’s
Super
Destabilizing Maneuver.” He checked the mirror again. Two hundred yards and closing. “Coleman, I need you to check the rental documents. They’re in the glove compartment.”

“I’m holding the video camera.”

“You see what I’m doing over here?” said Serge. “You have two hands.”

Coleman reached in the glove box and grabbed the rental packet. “What am I looking for?”

“See if the collision coverage box is checked.”

“Jesus,” said Coleman. “Did you notice what they can charge for a gallon of gas if we don’t bring the tank back full?”

“Come on!”

“Okay, wait, there’s a lot of shit here. That box is checked, that one isn’t…here it is, collision. Yes, it’s checked!”

“We’re go!” Serge’s eyes stayed on the side mirror. Four car lengths, three, two…“That’s it, just a little more, come to papa…”

One car length. A half. “Now!” Serge cut the steering wheel at the last second, slaloming into the next lane in front of the Marquis. He deftly worked the pedals in tandem with both feet, briefly slamming the brakes with his left, then punching the gas with his right.

Alarm in the Grand Marquis: “What the hell’s he—”

They tapped bumpers. The Chrysler accelerated away.

“Are you filming it?” asked Serge.

“Yep,” said Coleman, aiming back with the camera. “They’re having trouble doing eighty with the airbags deployed and…Man! They sailed right through that guardrail!”

“Make sure you get the fireball.”

“I’m getting it.”

Coleman finally turned around and shut off the camera. “Those poor guys.”

“Speed kills.”

Coleman was looking at the rental agreement again. “Serge, this collision box that’s checked. What’s
waiver
mean?”

“Why didn’t you tell me it said
waiver
?”

“You just asked if the collision box was checked.”

“That means we turned
down
coverage. Now we’ll have to report the car stolen. On the other hand, I get to push it off a cliff.”

HOLLYWOOD—According to a leaked copy of the secret shooting script for All That Glitters, legendary director Werner B. Potemkin is planning the most elaborate, expensive and dangerous movie climax ever attempted.

No one dared hazard an estimate on the final cost of the scene, but all agree it will easily push the overall budget into record territory.

An insider, who spoke on the condition of being paid, described a massive production that merges memorable scenes from numerous Academy Award–winning classics, including Casablanca, Lawrence of Arabia, On the Waterfront, North by Northwest and Oklahoma!

But most ambitious are the technical challenges of combining the attack on the Death Star with the parting of the Red Sea, further complicated by Potemkin’s refusal to use scale models or computer manipulation.

“We’re going to flood the two-million-gallon concrete basin on Soundstage 19 that we built for that pirate movie,” said the insider. “And we’re going to use real stuntmen with concealed scuba gear.”

Olive Avenue bends north through Burbank. Then it becomes wide and straight, a corridor of tall palms, abrupt mountains at the end. Serge reached the 1600 block, checking stores for addresses. He spotted the retro sign three blocks ahead.

“Coleman, there it is! I’ve got chills!”

“That motel?”

Serge whipped the convertible through the entrance of the Safari Inn. “This is where Jim Lovell’s wife lost her wedding ring down the shower drain in
Apollo 13.
Christian Slater and Patricia Arquette also stayed here in
True Romance.
”

Serge jumped out of the car and ran inside to the front desk. “Serge Storms. Secret message for me?”

The manager stared at Serge a moment, then went looking through the wooden slots on the wall behind the desk. He found a slip of paper and handed it across the counter.

Serge ran out the door.

The Chrysler was waiting outside. Empty. Serge’s eyes swept the parking lot. “Coleman!”

A horn honked. Tires screeched. “Watch it!”

“Sorry.” Coleman stopped and stood on the centerline of the highway. He drank a freshly popped beer while cars whizzed by on both sides. Finally, a break. Coleman trotting the rest of the way back to the car. “Hi, Serge.”

“Coleman, what are you doing?”

“Store over there. I was thirsty.”

“We’ve got work to do.” Serge unfolded the note and read. He stuck it back in his pocket and walked quickly through the parking lot, checking doors for room numbers. He came to the end. He opened the note again. “This can’t be right.”